She Keeps Her Towers Close
by Marchioness of Blackadder
Summary: "The point of the rook isn't power, but strategy. Having power isn't how you win; it's knowing how to use it."


**A/N: So this was a monster, but just like Soft Touch, it was ridiculously fun to write. Credit to the War Council and my beloved wetwangs for my idiotic ramblings. I hope you all enjoy reading it just as much as I loved writing it. accio-firewhiskey prompted: **_Candles _**and valerieparker prompted: **_Clever trick_

**She Keeps Her Towers Close**

Once upon a time, there was a wicked king and a cunning princess.

Neither is what they seem.

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><p>Sometimes, when Mr. Gold had retreated into the backroom, a dragon to attend his treasure in its den, Belle adventures through the trove of antiques in the pawnshop. Working for Mr. Gold wasn't a hard job, as he was not demanding or strict. In fact, he hardly spoke a word to her during their day together, and more often than not wound his tale about himself in the warm backroom, as dragons were wont to do. The man himself was a contradiction and moodier than anyone Belle had ever met. Most days he was a gentleman with a wicked eye and a cocksure smirk, if utterly quiet. He spent most of the eight hour work day in the backroom, doing… things. Belle was never sure, exactly, but the finality in his stature as he lumbered behind the curtain was a clear and flourishing signature <strong>do not disturb<strong>.

So she did not, at least not until that night.

The Maine sky had been boiling and black as pitch since she'd woken, and the wind was just as treacherous. Belle spent most of her day watching it blow leaves, plastic bags, and the occasional small child down the street. As it neared later into the afternoon, it looked more as if it were the middle of the night from how dark and murky their cloud cover was. Hurricane season was known to be something of a devilish time on the Atlantic coast, but Belle liked the idea of storms, the picturesque setting of a warm, crackling fire, swathed in a blanket with the crisp pages of a book fluttering at her fingertips.

Belle momentarily stopped her work on polishing the unique collection of antique fountain pens as she day dreamed of the cozy image, when a snapping spark of brightness caught her attention out of the corner of her eye. She saw the flimsy power lines wobbling, across the street, the power box blowing several circuits. It seemed only a heartbeat later that the entire shop went black, and the street outside was swallowed in darkness with it.

In the distance, past the wind and the oncoming storm, she could hear sirens. Belle tried to stand calmly, but ended up jumping from her seat and knocked over the wooden stool she usually occupied.

"What's happened?"

Belle turned, squinting hard in the darkness to see where Mr. Gold was. She hadn't heard his cane (she'd gotten good at listening for the familiar rhythm of it against the hardwood), so he surprised her with his stealth.

"A blackout," she said, surprised at how breathless she was. "I- I think it's the whole town."

Mr. Gold, in the darkness, walked past the counters, and Belle hurried after him. He stepped just outside the shop door, and put a hand out to the door frame, blocking her in. "Just stay here," he said gently, and peered up and down the street. Belle leaned against his arm to see what she could, but it was so utterly dark. She felt tingles along the back of her upper arms, and the hair on the back of her neck stood up. "I think I see some power lines fallen," he muttered, more to himself than her, before turning. He stopped short, surprised at how close she suddenly was, their chests touching.

Belle quickly moved back, wringing her hands, and asked, "How long before the lights come back on?"

Mr. Gold pulled the door securely shut behind him, his eyes watching her petite hands worry themselves. "Could be all night," he said after a pause. "I can't imagine they'll get much done in this weather."

Belle sighed, glancing around the shop. There was no way she could make it home safely in the dark. She imagined either getting run down by a power truck, blown away by the wind, knocked out by debris- it was all horrible. Storms were only fun to experience when one was indoors. Mr. Gold seemed to be thinking the same thing, his mouth pressed into a grim line as he surveyed beyond the windows contemplatively, leaning both hands on his cane.

"We could light the candles," she said after a moment, looking at the intricate candelabras near the door. One was gilded, sloping horizontally while the two that framed the door were taller. The last one had only four sticks to it, but Belle knew it would be easier to carry. She walked back across the length of the shop.

"I'll get the matches- there's a step in the corner," he told her, and she heard the metallic clunking of the cash register sliding open. Belle found the stool and hurried over to the candelabras. She began to climb, hearing Mr. Gold's cane approaching. "Be careful, lass. You're quite breakable."

Belle smiled down at him, and took the offered matches. With a crackling snap, the small flame flickered to life, and Belle quickly lit each candle, her tongue curving around her lip in concentration. She blew the match out, and was surprised to find an offered hand when she turned. She took it gratefully and stepped down, proceeding to light the other tall candelabra, and then the heavy gold one. When she finally scooted the step to reach the four tiered piece, she had to rise on her toes (it was always on the top shelf).

As she lifted it, the candles wavered and began to slip. Panicking, Belle tried to catch them and threw herself off balance. Everything happened in a whirl of darkness, a small crash, a clatter, a muffled thud, a girlish yelp, and a rough growl. In a tangle of legs, skirts, and hair, Belle realized the pawnbroker had attempted to catch her- an unwise decision for a man with a bum knee, especially in utter blackness. But she'd landed completely unharmed.

His growl when she shifted on top of him was not evidence that he'd been as blessed.

"Mr. Gold," she rolled off quickly, helping him up to sit, her pale hands holding his arms, and then quickly cupping his face, checking to see if he'd hit his head. "Oh God- are you all right? I'm so sorry!"

"No, no, dear, I'm fine." His words were gentle; his voice was as rough as tree bark.

"Your knee," she whispered, laying a gentle hand on his thigh. "Is there anything I can do?"

There was a pause, and Belle could just make out his narrowed profile in the shadows. "Help me up," he finally said, a defeated dragon. He was prideful, and so she said nothing about it. Belle cupped under his elbow and slowly helped him onto his good knee then stood him up. She swiped his cane where it had fallen to the floor, finding his warm, weathered hand and pressing the gold handle into his palm. She felt his fingers twitch and heard his breath hitch.

"Bring it to the backroom," he said softly, his voice changed, so much quieter and tender. Belle was surprised, but did as she was bid, lighting the four candles first before following him. He lifted the curtain for her, and Belle hurried into the dragon's den, holding flames in the dark.

If the front of the shop was considered cluttered, the backroom was simply a labyrinth of history. Belle stopped short, her breath catching as she saw all the odds and ends, baubles and trinkets, a vast realm of knowledge and undiscovered pieces with stories. Gold had gone to follow her and ran into her when she stopped short. Belle jumped, blushing and thankful for the dim candlelight. "Sorry," she whispered, hurrying forward, carefully picking between the disarray before setting the candelabra on a clean area of the table.

Belle cupped her hands in front of her, turning like a ballerina in a jewelry box. Mr. Gold was watching her, the candlelight casting shadows across his face, a dark god with raven's wings for eyes. He was watching her, simmering and heated, taking her in wholly. And suddenly Belle felt so exposed, bared to him, her pale arms, ankles, knees, her neck- she felt his gaze brushing over every inch of skin. The wind roared outside, and the rain beat against the roof and the siding of the building, but all Belle could hear was the rush of her own blood coursing in her ears.

"We could play a game," she offered. Her voice was breathy, hushed in the dark.

His eyes were on her lips now, and he gave her a crooked smirk that bespoke wickedness and glinting mischief. "Perhaps we could," he said, before stepping closer, his body gently pressing against hers as he hung his cane up on the cabinet latch behind her. A breeze of cologne and leather kissed her face, and Belle shivered when he pulled away. She watched him turn into the shadows of the room, limping gently before picking something up, turning and setting it down upon the table beside her. Belle's eyes widened, and a smile slowly bloomed across her face, looking up at him. He was still grinning. "I hear you're quite the player."

Belle reached a hand across and gently picked up one of the pieces, her favorite- the rook. The entire board itself was carved of spruce and cherry wood, _real_ wood, the most intricate thing Belle had ever seen. The stones of the tower were even visibly etched, flowers blooming between the miniscule vines creeping and growing about the edges. The other rook was opposing though, and Belle noticed it immediately. While the tower she held in her hand was beautiful, lofty, the other was desecrated, a ruin. Its stones were fallen, the battlements broken, the windows chipped, carved to perfection as if ravaged by war and flame.

The other pieces were just as elaborate, all hewn from true wood- a knight brandishing a sword on horseback, his armor and chainmail covering a broad chest, his cloak whirling behind him. She looked up at her employer in the shadows, feeling the candlelight on her face, and murmured, "Did you whittle these yourself?"

Mr. Gold smirked. "Well, elves didn't do it, dearie."

Belle smiled and whirled around the table to sit, her magnolia colored tea dress lapping about her knees as she took her place. Gold removed his suit jacket and folded it over the back of his chair. Belle watched him, the lines of his body moving fluidly graceful for a man with a limp. He settled himself across from her, his hair brushing his shoulders as he moved the pieces about to set them up. Outside, Belle could hear the storm, the wind howling now, and the rain assaulting the siding of the small shop like a feral beast clawing its way through the fortress. She hoped the little shop would stand to tell the tale, and realized she should have been more concerned about it. Perhaps her employer's ease was catching.

Mr. Gold was cherry, she was spruce, and for some reason that gave Belle tingles from how right it was. They arranged the pieces carefully, and Belle paused, looking up at him from under dark lashes. "Since… since we're here, caught, perhaps we can make it more interesting," she said coyly, placing her King.

Mr. Gold glanced up at her, his agile hand balancing over one of the pawns, a splendidly crafted soldier bearing the weight of a banner. His raven's wings flashed, and she saw his gold tooth catch in the candlelight. She felt his gaze at her throat again. "And what might you have in mind, lass?"

Belle looked down, demure and sweet, her hands folding into her lap, but magic tingled at her eyelashes and a secret hid in the corner of her smile. "How about a deal?" She noticed his fingers slowly close over the pawn and move it into place, but other than that he remained completely still. "For every pawn earned, we must answer a question."

Belle looked up at him, and Mr. Gold was staring at her, narrowed eyes, dark and simmering, a dragon lying in wait. He was studying her, and the heat of the candles lighting the chessboard brought them together like the strings of a harp, taunt and ready for plucking. She was expecting his negation, and was surprised with his soft assent.

"Deal." Mr. Gold grinned at her, showing his dragon's teeth and cunning. Belle felt butterflies trapped in her ribcage. "White, my lady, goes first."

And so it began.

Belle moved her first pawn in silence, and she felt Mr. Gold's eyes on her face, willing the blush to bloom in her cheeks. She glanced up at him, and without taking his eyes away from her, he moved his first piece as well. Belle found herself drawn to his hands, the agile fingers, weathered knuckles, his polished rings glinting as he grazed the chess piece. She'd felt them warm on her waist, touching her wrist, the same graze caressing the delicate skin there. He cleared his throat, and their eyes met. Belle swallowed, a heat settling low in her belly. He noticed too much for her own comfort.

Belle moved her next piece.

"You mapped wars in your day," the dragon rumbles in the dark.

Belle looked up from the board, her periwinkle eyes flashing with memory. The dragon was smiling, teeth and barbs and smoke, but she would not be lured by his swaying tail as he laid in wait for her. With a delicate flick of her wrist, she sent her knight forth, his glory pronounced on the battlefield. She stole a pawn, trampled him into the blood soaked mud.

Mr. Gold simply smiled, but his eyes were darker, narrowed, shrewd. This dragon would not be easily tamed. Belle took his pawn from the field, holding it in her petite hand thoughtfully.

"Your leg," she finally said. "How did you hurt it?"

"Car accident." The response was almost out of his mouth before she'd finished the question.

Belle narrowed her eyes. "But how-?"

"Ah, ah," Gold shook a finger at her. "One piece, one question."

Belle pouted and set the pawn to the side. _So that's how it will be._ They resumed the game for several grueling moments, bishops shifting, knights leaping, pawns trudging forth. Gold kept his king and queen close. Belle kept her towers closer, and moved her queen out. Gold raised a skeptical eyebrow at her, but Belle's face remained impassive. With two more moves, he'd captured a bishop, a man in flourishing robes and sashes, proclaiming with his beliefs with a staff steepled with a Roman Catholic cross.

Belle thought his face was carved quite crudely. She did not miss him.

Mr. Gold set the bishop aside, his eyes stroking the hollow of her throat. He leaned on his elbows, cupping his hands against his mouth for a moment as he studied her before asking, "What frightens you, Miss French?"

Belle startled for a moment, clearly thrown by the question. "I…what frightens me?"

The dragon nodded once, his dark eyes ravenous.

_Everything_ would be an appropriate answer, she supposed. Close spaces, dark spaces, the cold, the ocean, anything that could swallow her up, silence and suffocate her. She'd been pinned down, buried beneath soil and steel. It shouldn't scare her after the conditioning, the initial acceptance of what she could not change, but it still did. It terrified her. But something else was truer.

"Time," she whispered, her eyes gazing at the lofty tower with rose vines and steepled windows, with battlements strong and regal. A princess' tower, a tower of refuge and strength. Her eyes flickered up to him.

The dragon watched her, wisdom etching his sharpened face, obsidian eyes studying what he had not encountered before (or perhaps he had). She saw the candlelight gild his ruby red tie, imagining her pale hand there, pulling it toward her, drawing the dragon closer. She was not afraid of that. She did not fear dragons, because flame was all consuming. Flame was cleansing.

"It's what we can't truly escape from," she explained, her eyes fluttering to the candles that lit their table in that small, dark room with hell and wind beating their shelter above. "You can't catch it, you can't stop it, can't move it or tame it. It's invisible, but it's everywhere. It's most easily forgotten, but most important. And if it should ever stop…"

"Yes?"

Belle looked at her employer, the rapture capturing his usually masked face holding her to her spot. "Terrible things would happen."

They sat in heated exertion, the dragon and the little doll in a world of shadows. Belle didn't break her gaze from his, watched his tongue flick his bottom lip as she moved her tower forward. He sent out his knight, the lone knight, and she let her bishop fly across the board and smash it to ruins with his staff.

Mr. Gold chuckled darkly, but without mirth. "Priests have the last word."

Belle raised an eyebrow, before calling her next card. She'd learned the first time what to say and how to say it. "Why don't you have family or friends?" She hadn't asked if he had any- she already knew that. And she included herself. She saw the hurt flash in his eyes as if she'd slapped him with her assumption.

Mr. Gold looked down contemplatively at the board, and Belle wondered for a moment if he was going to break their deal and ignore her question. Then, after a long moment, his brogue softer, but aloof, "I can hardly conjure them out of thin air. Aside from that, I am a quiet man and I prefer to be left alone. I've been accused of distancing people," he looked up at her pointedly, his gaze laced with askance. "As if I didn't know. It's a wise tactic for those of us who wish to be alone."

Belle watched him, before she slowly smiled humorlessly. "You are a liar."

Mr. Gold stared at her, narrowing his eyes, but there was anxiety marking his mouth. He was a cornered beast ready to flee, but surrounded by pitchforks on every side. She saw his hands fold, tighten, and she shook her head gently, her curls brushing her back, looking down at the board. He had cornered her knight, but she saw the trap he'd set.

"I'm insulted you think I would give up a pawn for my tower," she scoffed.

"You keep those close, I see." His voice was cold.

Belle nodded, before moving her queen, removing his offending pawn from her way. She imagined the regal mistress, a Lady Macbeth, whose gown flowed and billowed about her as she slapped aside the incompetent. "They are my favorite. Limited power, yes, but power isn't everything," Belle looked at her favorite pawn, the beautiful tower, its sister, the ruin, standing farther across the board.

"Power is what fuels the world, little one," Mr. Gold told her, but the playfulness that they'd adopted so very often was gone now. His eyes were wounds, dark coals simmering from a scourge she could never see.

Belle grinned conspiratorially. "Yes, but even the smallest of people can win wars," she said softly, before reaching out and moving her tower forward, capturing his queen. His trap was moot. "The point of the rook isn't power, but strategy. Having power isn't how you win; it's knowing how to use it."

Yes, she had planned wars.

Mr. Gold stared at her, hard and uncomprehending. Belle's smile began to fall, and her breath fell short. She had not included him in her fears, because she did not fear him. What did scare her, though, was _why_ he might be looking at her with such undeniable intensity, as if he wanted to consume her with the black fire that was his gaze. Belle swallowed, moving to set the pawn aside when a firm, rough-hewn hand struck out like an adder, encasing her delicate wrist.

Belle gasped, and everything after that wasn't a blur like in books, but vivid windswept reality. She was pulled up over the table, her back slamming on top of the surface. His hands were in her hair, cupping her head, his mouth hungry on hers, hot as dragon's fire. She gasped again, breathing in the flame, pushing herself up from the table before being shoved back down. She felt her hair spill out above her, tangled in chess pieces and candlelight.

Belle could feel his heart pounding against his chest, pressed so tightly against her own, taking in his scent with every breath and sigh. Her hands felt tiny, so miniscule against the ever-present darkness that shadowed him, but the silk of his ruby tie ran under her fingers auspiciously, and she tightened her fingers around it, the lasso of her dragon. His mouth swept the curve of her jaw, over her cheekbone to her temple, pressing a kiss there, hammering a nail. She felt his shoulders tremble as she pulled him closer, and he trembled when he breathed into her hair, burying his face into her.

Because fire is consuming, and fire is cleansing.

Her pulse thrummed against her neck when his mouth claimed her there, and her heart leapt like a frightened doe. Through that dense fog of her past and present, nothing had ever been so incredibly clear. He was shadow, but he was whole and real and completely tainted and pure at the same time.

Weightlessness made her head spin, and she was aware that she was sitting up, her swan's arm around his neck and across his slender shoulders. Belle tilted her head, every line of her body pressed to his, and God, her face burned, and her cheeks were hot against his skin. Her heeled feet, winsome ankles were careful to pull him closer behind his knees, and she took in his growl like hiding a secret. It belonged to her and her alone, because she was a dragon-tamer.

That's when the lights came on.

Mr. Gold lifted his face, breaking their kiss like the shattering of a mirror and looked up. The lighting was dim, but it was there. Belle was sure that if he let her go she would fall back over the table in the most graceless way, so she was very thankful when he helped her down without a word. She knew she should feel embarrassed, but strangely, the only feeling she could name was resolution. She had found the path to the puzzle, the turn of the clever trick, and it settled within her heart where it had needed to be placed for so long.

Belle paused, feeling Mr. Gold's eyes on her face, before she leaned across the table and blew each of the four candles out. Wax had dripped all along the table, which was now cluttered with fallen knights and trampled pawns. She knelt down to the floor, gathering the ones they had knocked over, and he collected the ones from the table. They reset the board, both quiet, their hands and wrists brushing every so often, and Belle felt her face burn again in the most lovely of ways. She looked up at him from under dark lashes, curious of her old dragon. He paused, looking at the object in his hand. He glanced at her with a raised eyebrow before taking her hand and dropping the piece into her palm.

"For you."

Belle raised an eyebrow, her dimpled smile blooming on her lips. "But your set will be incomplete."

Mr. Gold smiled, mischief playing at the corners of his mouth, but his eyes were as soft as his skin had felt. His fingers closed hers over the piece, and he laid his other hand atop. "How about another deal?"

Belle inclined her head, but was careful not to agree. Read the fine print before you put your name to anything. He read it in her eyes and his grin widened, all teeth and wickedness. "You may return it when we play again. Consider it a promise, then that our game is not yet over."

She smiled, holding the promise, the beautifully wrought tower with rose vines tight in her grasp.

Belle had always kept her towers close.

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><p><strong>AN: Reviews are appreciated. Thank you for reading.**


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